The true northerner. [volume] (Paw Paw, Mich.) 1855-1920, 1887-03-30
A FRONTIER SKETCH.
BY THOMAS COLQUITT.
CHAPTER /.

CHAPTER l.
This story was told TO the writer beside
miners camp fire in Southern Arizona,
one hot and sleepless night last summer,
by an ancient mariner of those western
wilds who, Judging from his personal APP
pearance, was probably out there some
where prospecting when the country was
created.
Cottonwood was a small town of half a
dozen log and adobe houses on the bank
of the San Juan. There were but two
stores in the place, and their principal
stock in trade consisted of whisky, fire.
arms, and provisions, III the order named.
Their customers were miners, hunters and
trappers, and Indians.
There is n great difference, which You
cannot understand, between the Cottonwood
of that day and the prosperous, rustling city
which now stands upon the same spot. Yet
only a few years have passed 1t seems
when l come to look back; only q few years,
but they have been long, long wasted years
for me, as have plodded my way through
life alone. l once planned 1t out differ
ent; for few short months | was happy
in the love of the fairest girl that ever trod
this earth.
will commence at the first and tell my
story properly.
was an orphan. Ny father, one of the
first white men who ever penetrated this
region, had died when L was but few
months old. My mother soon followed
him, and was left TO the tender mercies
of Mr.. Charner. / never knew anything
concerning my parents people.
When i was fourteen years Of age rail-
road was built to Cottonwood. After the
road came the inevitable newspaper, and
the Ishmdehie was established. Through
boyish curiosity | visited the printing Office.
The editor took a kindly interest in me
and gave me WORK on the paper. He was
kind-hearted man, but entirely unsuited
for this country. He was always very kind
TO me, however, allowing me to do all the
work in the office, as | grew able, includ-
ing the heavy press work Of the entire
edition of fifteen quires. One day, how
ever, III thoughtless moment he CHANGED
to contradict Diego Dan as to the quality
of a pint of whisky. Dan started n grave
yard with the editor, and the paper passed
into other and more competant hands.
Diego Dan was the whitest man that ever
lived. He seemed TO consider himself in
honor bound to provide for my future, after
he had SO summary removed my late en-
ployer, so he administered on the editors
estate and gave me the Office. He often
asked me To join him in excursions up the
river or out on the plains. / remained in
the office of the Ishmaelite for four years,
closely at work, when one summer l de-
cided to take n months recreation with
Dan. He was a good fellow, as ! have
said, we'll educated, handsome, and always
dressed well. l believed him then to be a
dandy sort of hunter and trapper; but /
came to know afterward that, when out on
the plains, he often compelled overland
gold seekers to pay heavy toll for crossing
the divide. But he was always good to
me, and il was none of my business. He
was the best shot in all that country, where
everyone shot we'll, and he could see an
object farther away than any person L ever
knew. One laughable peculiarly in his
craftsmanship was that, at long range, he
always shot Indians in the legs. Many
supposed he did it on purpose, but he
explained the matter to me III confidence.
/ was then very sorry that he had not
taken long range shot at my friend, the
editor.
We started on our voyage up the river
early one morning in July. Against the
current our progress could not, OF course,
be very rapid; we made fairly good time,
however, and were soon in the midst of
some magnificent scenery. Diego Dan was
quite an artist with the pencil, as well as
the pistol, and / readily recognized sew
.eral pretty bits of scenery along the river
from sketches he had made on previous
voyages.
We camped the first night about fifty
miles above Cottonwood, very tired after
days hard rowing. Directly after supper
Dan rolled himself up In a blanket and
was asleep long before l closed my eyes
upon the bright stars glittering above me.
The second evening We reached the ruins
of an old log house-we were now among
fha Ariynpa pina ot m iha riyar hoplr
The structure had or ginally contained sew
eral rooms, but of these one alone was
standing, and it offered but slight protec-
ton in case there should be storm during
the night.
do you know TINT we are in haunted
house, said Dan to me that night as we sat
at supper in the little room.
"No; do your"
at is said to be, was the reply by which
he evaded direct opinion.
"Why SOP" / asked, greatly interested.
you remember hearing of old man Bar
ton. who was murdered up here, with his
entire family, some three years ago."
IL never heard the particulars of the af-
fair"
WELL" Dan continued reluctantly,
though i could not then understand why
he should dislike to tell the story, Barton
lived here, and | often stopped over for
several days at a time with the old fellow.
Sometimes be would join US in a trip out on
the plains and-but Ill tell you that an
other time. He was an eccentric man, as
you will conclude, or he never would have
settled up here so far from civilization.
He possessed great deal of money, or
or, at least, / always considered him a
wealthy man.
"One day VIII lie intoxicated down at Cot
'tonwood he shot an Indian. Their law is,
you know, life for life. and but for the in
reference of myself and others it would
have been executed there at once. The